“You have never tasted a wine like that,” Victor insisted, smiling down at her.

It was true enough, what he claimed; though it had something of character of a sound old Madeira, this wine had more, a surpassing richness, a fruitiness in no way cloying, a peculiarly aromatic taste and fragrance, elusive and provoking, with a hint of bitterness never to be analyzed by the most experienced palate.

“What is it?” Sofia asked after her first sip.

“You like it, eh?  An old wine of China, unknown to Western Europe.”  Victor gave it a musical name in what Sofia took to be Chinese.  “Outside my cellars, I’ll wager there’s not another bottle of it this side of Constantinople.  Drink it all.  It will do you good.”

He seated himself.  “And now my reason for wishing to talk with you to-night....  A note came by the last delivery from Lady Randolph West.  You met her, I understand, through Sybil Waring, a few days ago.  She was apparently much taken with you.”

“She is very kind.”

Victor had found a sheet of notepaper and, bending to the light, was searching its scrawled lines with narrowed eyes.

“‘Too lovely,’ she calls you—­and quite justly, my dear.  Yes; here it is:  ‘Too lovely for words.’  And she wants me to bring my ‘charming daughter’ down to Frampton Court for this week-end.”

Sofia said nothing, but put her half-empty glass aside.  The wine had done her good, she thought.  She felt better, stronger, mentally more alert, and at the same time curiously soothed.

Victor refolded the note and tapped the table with it, holding Sofia with speculative eyes.

“It should be amusing,” he said, thoughtfully, “a new experience for you.  Elaine—­I mean Lady Randolph West, of course—­is a charming hostess, and never fails to fill Frampton Court with delightful people.”

“I’m sure I should love it.”

“I am sure you would.  And yet ...  I may have been a little premature, since I have already written accepting the invitation.”  He indicated an addressed envelope face up on the table.  “But on second thoughts, it seemed perhaps wiser to consult you first.”

“But if it is your wish, I must go,” Sofia replied, mindful of Karslake’s injunction not to oppose Victor.  “What have I to say—?”

“Everything about whether we accept or do not—­or if not everything, at least the final word.  I must abide by your decision.”

“But I shall be only too glad—­”

“Think a moment.  It might be wiser not to go.  You alone can say.”

“I don’t quite understand ...”

Victor sighed.  “It is a painful subject,” he said, slowly—­“one I hesitate to reopen.  But we can never profit by closing our minds to facts; I mean, to the reality of the danger which is always with us, since it is within us.”

“What danger?” Sofia enquired, sullenly, knowing the answer too well before it was spoken.